


What Happens When You Get To Six

by blueeyesandpie, MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Castiel knows exactly what he's doing thank you very much, Castiel uses his ears (and his grace), Dean Winchester is a Hot Mess, Dean has a Zanna, First Kiss, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 14, Sam Winchester wants to enjoy his avocado toast in peace, Slow Burn, destiel goes canon, killer bogeyman, season 14 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/pseuds/blueeyesandpie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: Season 15, episode 9: Team Free Will follow a case to Jackson, where a bogeyman is scaring children to death. The key to the case lies with an old, secret friend of Dean’s and a much-needed conversation between Dean and Castiel.





	1. Avocado Toast

**Author's Note:**

> (From blueeyesandpie)
> 
> This fic was planned and started by MalMuses, and then I offered to finish it so she could take care of some things in RL. It was a little nerve-wracking to take over a project started by an author I admire so very much, but I eventually got over it and had a _lot_ of fun describing the culmination of eleven years of UST. 
> 
> Thank you so much to [LanaSerra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanaSerra) and [spandwiches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spandwiches), who gave me the most comprehensive, yet kind and supportive, beta support I have ever experienced. They're seriously the best and I hope to work with them again sometime. <3
> 
> Please see the end for a few other personal notes from me!
> 
> \---
> 
> About Destiel Fanfic Season 15:
> 
> Welcome to the Destiel Fanfic Season 15 Project! This series will comprise of 20 episodes (as separate works under the DestielFanficSeason15 collection) posting every Thursday for 20 weeks during the hiatus between season 14 and 15. This project is a collaboration between a group of authors, artists and betas. Each week different authors and artists will take part, with various configuration of authors and artists working in teams for each episode.
> 
> The endnotes will be updated with a link to the next episode once it posts, and you can always see all works in the collection here. Please also consider joining us on tumblr at [destielfanficseason16](https://destielfanficseason16.tumblr.com/) and [destielwritersroom](https://destielwritersroom.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Notes on the series: Destiel is endgame. While this fic is rated Teen, other fics in the series will be rated a lot higher, some Explicit. Please read the tags for individual episodes.

THEN

_Dean’s smile is blinding as he looks at Lisa Braeden—_

_Castiel and Sam light the fire, watching for Morpheus and Phobetor—_

_“Behind me!” Dean obeys without question—_

_They lean closer, and then the dream crashes down—_

_“I had such a nightmare that I will never sleep again.”_

_“Yeah, what did you dream?”_

_“Well first it was so beautiful, but somehow it turned into a real horror show.”_

_“I’m sorry, Dean but it wasn’t real.”_

_It never will be._

NOW

Sam relishes the quiet parts of the morning when he’s done with his run, but it’s still early enough that the other inhabitants of the bunker are sleeping. Well, except Castiel, of course, but he’s hardly a bother at the best of times. He has a sixth sense for when to make himself scarce doing whatever he does between research and butting heads with Dean. 

The benefit of a sleeping brother and an absent angel is Sam gets to enjoy his smoothie and avocado toast free of sarcastic commentary. He relaxes back, hoisting his feet onto the chair in front of him. With a crunch of avocado-y, flax-seed-y goodness, he flicks open his laptop with his other hand to see what his programmed alerts have found for him overnight. Dean says he has too many—“a ridiculous amount" to be specific—but they’ve been too useful over the years for his brother to push too hard. 

Sam scrolls one-handed, rolling his eyes in the quiet of the war room as he passes some of the laughable results. There’s a couple claiming the wife’s ex-boyfriend’s ghost impregnated her while she slept; of course, there’s no mention of the handsome neighbor patting her shoulder in the interview. Then there’s a man claiming the President is a vampire (with that skin tone, though? Even the most off-base legends wouldn’t allow for that). There’s even a group of college kids with blown pupils and Ganja for Life T-shirts claiming they saw some fairies. 

Sam’s amusement cuts short immediately after the fairy tale ends, however. _“Sixth Child Found Dead in Enclosed Space—Authorities Baffled!”_ the Jackson Citizen Patriot’s website announces. Sam’s chest constricts and he sets his toast down as he leans closer to the screen. 

_Sucks when it’s kids_. 

The story is more than strange enough to meet case criteria. Sam reads through every article he can find before he looks toward the library. “Hey, Cas!” he calls, craning his neck toward the library. He hopes the angel’s supernatural hearing will help him out.

“Yes?” Cas asks in a chilly tone as he strolls out of the stacks.

“Good morning to you, too,” Sam says pointedly, raising an eyebrow. The _whatever that isn’t_ between Cas and Dean has reached a point where Sam wants to smash both their heads together, but as far as he’s aware he’s done nothing to personally attract the angel’s ire. 

Castiel’s lips twitch. “Good morning,” he amends in an apologetic tone. He doesn’t explain his apparent bad mood, but Sam doesn’t have time to Regina George it out when there’re actual children dying in Mississippi so he lets it go.

“Look at this,” he says instead, spinning the laptop with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Castiel sits, rubbing his hands together as if seeking distraction. He reads anyway, frowns, then reads again. “Our thing?”

“Ding-ding-ding.” 

Castiel’s frown deepens as he scrolls back to the top for a third read-through. “Their hearts just stopped?”

Sam nods as he polishes off his toast. “Frightened to death.”

“That’s…” Castiel trails off before stating the obvious _really-weird-slash-possibly-impossible,_ but it hangs in the air regardless.

“I agree. Time for us to gear up.”

“Us?”

 _You don’t have to sound so thrilled_ , Sam thinks irritably but hides it beyond the smallest of eye rolls. “You, me, Dean… Team Free Will, right? Come on, dude. It’s clearly a case.”

“Yes, but I…” Castiel purses his lips together, eyeing the map table as if it holds the answer to life, the universe, and everything. “Perhaps I would be of more use here.”

Silence stretches as Sam sorts through possible responses. In the end, he settles for, “Cut the crap, Cas. We both _want_ you there and you know it.”

“I am not the one who—”

“Damn it, Cas, you’re both driving me crazy!” Sam cries, smacking the palm of his hand down on the table despite every effort to keep hold of his temper. “You and Dean have been tip-toeing around this bunker ever since we ganked Morpheus and you know what? I don’t care. I am _done_. Both of you are going on this case, and we’re going to solve it together, and no one is going to make this any harder than it has to be!”

Sam sucks in a deep breath around a silent _or else_ , meeting Castiel stare for stare until the angel looks down and away. “Of course,” Castiel says, pushing himself up slowly. “I’ll—-uh, I’ll be in the car.” 

Sam watches him go, jaw clenched. Whatever the hell’s going on between Castiel and Dean, they need to hurry up and get over it. Chuck made a big enough mess of the world without those two adding more to the muddle. _Maybe a new case will get their heads out of their asses._ At the very least it might distract them enough to avert another argument. 

With a sigh, Sam sucks down the last of his smoothie and snaps his laptop shut. It’s time to tell Dean about the case.


	2. A Modern Witch

The road to Jackson is paved with good intentions, a fact Dean has to remind himself of at regular intervals. They’re saving people, hunting things; it’s what they do and that’s supposed to be a good thing, right? Thing is, the thirteen hour trip to Jackson sure feels like a punishment. A silent punishment, the sort that even a steering wheel, Metallica, and a greasy spoon lunch can’t mitigate.

Sam spends most of the drive on his phone or laptop, talking with hunters and other people he knows—how _does_ Sam know so many people these days?—to learn every scrap he can about the area, the victims, and the local chatter. “Bingo,” he announces as they cross the Mississippi border. “Got a good start. The mother of one of the victims is a witch.”

“She’ll be easier to deal with,” Castiel comments from the back. By the sound of it, his face is angled toward Sam, and Sam alone. 

Dean groans, tired and frustrated and all-around _done_ before they even arrive. “Witches,” he says, scrubbing his hand down his face, “why is it always witches?” 

It’s a good thing he doesn’t expect his complaint to be acknowledged, because it isn’t. Soon enough they’re pulling up to 117 Arbor Street. It’s a tidy ranch-style house in a cute suburb: flowers in the front yard, basketball hoop nailed above the garage, tell-tale glow of a TV screen through the curtains, the whole nine yards.

At least she’s a _modern_ witch. 

Sam straightens himself out and knocks. Dean allows him to take charge without complaint, focusing instead on peering around the grounds on the off-chance there’s some shrunken heads between the potted plants or extra body parts behind the bushes. 

No valid reason to shoot the witch comes to light before she answers the door, so Dean slinks in after Sam, practically shoulder-checking Cas out of the way as they enter the house. Cas huffs irritably and Dean jerks his chin up, expecting some smartass comment that never arrives.

The witch introduces herself as Violet. She’s a petite brunette with soft chocolate eyes, probably in her mid-thirties by Dean’s best guess. She knows who he and Sam are ( _Who doesn’t, at this point?_ ), but she’s clearly puzzled by Cas. She keeps peering at the angel in the intent way people with gifts sometimes do, her curiosity clear, but temporarily contained by manners or grief. _Or both_. 

Dean largely ignores Violet at first, because Sam and Cas waste no time grabbing the corner market on interviewing her. Instead, Dean strolls around the room, his eyes carefully fixed on whatever decorative bauble is nearest, rather than on his companions. He’s just looking for helpful clues. That’s all. 

“Violet,” Cas’s voice is unbearably gentle. Dean hasn’t heard that tone out of him in months—years even, maybe. The last time that stands out to him, Cas was wearing a cowboy hat and quoting Tombstone. That thought brings back a more recent memory, one that still stings. _I dressed as a damn cowboy for you, even though I hated the movie you made me watch!_

Dean nearly drops a china figurine he doesn’t remember picking up. By the time he’s put it back in its place on the sideboard he’s dragged himself out of the dream he doesn’t want to remember, away from the past he wishes he could live again, and back to the present where Cas is still talking.

“-Could you explain to us what you think happened?” 

“My husband Tristan and I,” Violet begins after another long moment of searching the angel’s face, “we let Xavier play with the kids next door a lot. They’re about his age –five and seven—and they all get along, so it’s nice for them to run and play. They’re always running between our house and theirs.”

Dean finally forces himself to settle on the couch, nodding understanding. He freezes when he catches Sam and Cas doing the same, then forces himself to continue. Witch or not, she lost her child and Dean’s not so far gone to annoyance that he can’t feel for her. 

“I was making dinner, and their oldest, Dylan, came running in and said they couldn’t find Xavier. They’d been playing hide and seek, and Dylan’s mom Alice had told them it was time to come inside and eat, and for Xavier to go home. He’s only six, so of course, he doesn’t always do exactly as he’s told the first time. He’d run off to hide one last time, saying that after Dylan found him he’d go home. Alice helped Dylan search for him for a while, but then she got worried and sent Dylan to find me.”

Violet presses her lips together and looks at her hands where they rest palms-down on her knees. Castiel reaches out and Dean’s eyes follow as the angel gently touches her forearm. “Where was he, Violet?” 

“He, uh,” she exhales slowly, and Dean feels like the worst person in the world for having to tear his eyes from Castiel’s fingers so he can respectfully observe her grief. “He was in their storage building, inside an old cabinet they had in there. He’d crawled inside the bottom cupboard and—” her voice wobbles precariously “—when they found him, his… his hands were… he was still holding onto the inside of the door. Like he was holding it shut, like…”

She trails off, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex that looks far from sanitary. Sam starts fishing for a handkerchief, but it’s Castiel who offers Violet a clean tissue from the well-used box on the table. She takes it with a brief nod. 

“Like he was holding the door shut—trying to hide from something?” Sam offers, and Dean knows he’s using the police reports to help her fill in the gaps. “Protecting himself, maybe?”

Violent nods, clearing her throat and managing to come back a little stronger. “Yes. He could have just let himself out—I don’t understand why he didn’t.”

“Did he suffocate?” Castiel asks. He catches Dean’s eye mid-query and the last word ends on a blunt note. 

The witch gives him a startled look. “No,” she chokes out, shaking her head in denial. “That was the weirdest part. They—the police—they said that he hadn’t even been in there very long. He was holding the door shut, hiding, and his heart just _stopped_ , like… like whatever he was hiding from literally scared him to death.”

She loses the battle with grief, her head falling fully into her hands as sobs wrack her slender shoulders. Dean shifts uncomfortably. He’d usually be doing something to help, but Cas’s hand is still on the woman’s forearm, shutting Dean out more thoroughly than a physical wall could have.

Dean’s chest twinges painfully and he winces, rubbing at it with his palm. Just his luck, his brother looks up at the movement, lifting one eyebrow in silent judgment. It passes quickly. 

_Time to move_ , they say to each other silently. Routine, this part, albeit never easy; Dean nods agreement. “Violet,” he says as carefully as he can, “are you able to show us where your son died?”


	3. One Color

The shed—a barn, really, in the back of the sizeable yard— is wrapped in layers of tape. _Crime Scene_ and _Caution_ zig-zagging in garish yellow against the red paint. As normal as the house had been, Dean still half-expects a bat to fly out at him or a hex bag to fall on his head when he opens the door, but it turns out the place is full of mundane stuff, like any other suburban storage area: old furniture, boxes of outgrown toys, lawn furniture, a Christmas tree. 

Nothing special.

Violet’s visibly shaking as she leads them around an old tricycle to a china cabinet of sorts. It’s scratched up, but not falling apart; big and bulky, with shelves above and cupboards below. The doors are open, presumably left that way by the police who’d swarmed every inch of the place for hours according to the witch. 

Dean’s stomach churns as he looks at that tiny space. He remembers finding places like that to hide as a kid, remembers the fear that gripped him, the need for safety. His cupboards had given him that, at least; this child had died of fright while hiding for his life. 

_But from what?_

“Violet,” Dean says, drawing his eyes away from the empty cupboard. He clears his throat before he continues. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at all, however trivial it seems?” Violet crosses her arms and glares at him; too late, Dean realizes he’d verged closer to suspicion than support. 

“Dean is just trying to help,” Castiel speaks up. “Did anything happen that you didn’t feel comfortable sharing with the police? You know we are not...like them.” 

Violet nods slowly, chin wobbling. “Yes. You’re hunters, I—I know. I just…” Her eyes track to the side and Dean follows them. A tall mirror with a crack down the side rests against the wall across from them. 

“What is it?” Dean asks quietly, trying for all he’s worth to be as good at this as Sam and Castiel always are. He’s a people person, damn it. 

“Anya, my neighbor’s youngest. She said… she said when they were looking for Xavier, she saw something in the mirror. A reflection of someone sneaking out when they weren’t looking. She’s only five so no one would take her seriously.”

Dean blinks, then frowns. “Even so, that seems like a serious piece of evidence to follow up on—no one believed her at all?”

“Well,” Violet wrings her fingers together, her eyes darting from face to face as if she still didn’t think they’d take her seriously, hunters or not. “They probably didn’t believe her because what she described was as you said: not something I would share with the police.”

Finally getting somewhere, Sam, Dean and Castiel all crowd closer.

* * *

Castiel nudges an ice cream sundae across the table. “Here,” he says. “This is for you.” The little girl sitting across from Castiel gives him a suspicious look and he leans forward with a conspiratorial smile. “If you talk to us, you can have the rest of mine, too.” It’s no sacrifice for him, but the little girl’s eyes get big and she grabs at the boat-like dish with two chubby hands. 

He chooses to ignore how Dean’s eyes roll to the heavens at the gesture. He’d do the same if positions were flipped and they both know it.

The little girl’s mother, a dark-haired, nervous-looking woman from Colombia, is sitting with Violet just a couple of tables away. In the eyes of the world, they’re three middle-aged strangers; even Castiel can understand the logic of interviewing a child in public, with a parent present, even if it had led to this extremely awkward afternoon snack at Merle’s Diner. 

“Anya,” Sam asks, ducking down slightly so he’s leaning his forearms on the table, “can you tell us what you saw in the storage barn at your house when you were looking for your friend Xavier the other day?”

Anya pulls the spoon from her sundae. A bit of ice cream curls from the tip of the spoon and she stares at it for a moment before she looks at her mom, lower lip pulling in tight against her teeth. Both women give her an encouraging nod, so Anya looks first at Sam and Castiel across from her, then Dean sitting next to her. 

_She thinks we’ll make fun of her_ , Castiel realizes. He lifts his eyebrows and gives Anya a thumbs up. 

The spoon disappears into the little girl’s mouth for a moment, leaving a trail of chocolate fudge on her chin. Anya sets to work excavating another bite as soon as the first is gone, but she seems determined now. 

“It was a man.” They wait. “In the mirror. A really tall man.”

“Can you tell us anything else about him?” Castiel urges, hopefully. 

Anya’s eyes get impossibly wide, but she gives Castiel a fractional nod before she leans across the table, whispering conspiratorially. “I couldn’t see him, Cas-tee-el. He had a bag on his face!”

From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Sam’s mouth fall open. 

“A bag?” Dean asks. He swipes at her chin with his thumb before she can jam the spoon back in her mouth. He succeeds only in smearing the fudge across her face. 

“Yeah. Like the brown farmer bags.” Sam and Dean exchange puzzled looks and Castiel looks at his hands, having nothing better to do. 

“Like… a potato sack?” Sam clarifies again after a short delay.

She nods solemnly. “And he had a big sack on his back, too. Like...like Santa, except he was mad. And he was really skinny like Mister Andrews’ scarecrow.”

“Right,” Dean says, nodding very seriously. He bends down, smiling at the little girl next to him. “Don’t worry, Anya. We believe you about your sack man.” 

She’s smiling up at Dean, and Dean’s grinning like the dumbass human he’s always been, and something odd is happening in Castiel’s vessel’s rib cage that he just doesn’t have time for. He clears his throat to draw Sam’s attention, leaning sideways to whisper to him, “Ever come across that before?” 

Sam shakes his head, drumming thumb and pinky against the table as if trying to shake memories loose with the sound. “I mean… there was a cursed scarecrow once, but not a man who had a head like one.”

“What did the rest of him look like?” Dean’s tone is coaxing as he pulls a napkin across the table and offers the kid an orange crayon that came with the diner’s under-twelve menu. “Can you draw him for me?”

Her eyes light up and she grins, shuffling closer to Dean and grabbing the crayon. She has chocolate on her nose now, and her fingers leave smears on the hunter’s sleeve. Dean seems oblivious, however, simply holding the napkin steady while she works. 

Castiel watches in silence, unable to tear his eyes away. Dean’s so open, smiling down at the little girl the way he’d smiled at Ben Braeden once upon a time. Like he’d smiled at Lisa in the dream. _I have everything I want here,_ Dean had said. It had been almost too real, that dream, stirring up hope Castiel had nearly squashed...but Dean had called it a nightmare. 

The weight of Castiel’s gaze pulls Dean’s eyes up, but the angel glances away, hiding his discomfort behind millennia of stoicism and a clenched jaw. He doesn’t look back until Anya sets her crayon down with a satisfied exclamation.

Her crude sketch of a skinny, stooped man with a sack on his back and a fabric head with a rip for a mouth looks almost cute. “His eyes were black but I only had orange,” she supplies in a serious tone. 

“Of course,” Dean responds, just as serious. “I understand.” He examines the drawing carefully before sliding it across to Sam for safekeeping.

Smiling, Anya pushes herself up on her knees to yank Castiel’s sundae toward her. “You promised!” she crows, her frightening memory forgotten as she plucks the cherry from the top. Castiel smiles and settles back, resigning himself to at least another half hour of not-looking at Dean Winchester.


	4. Yes Dean, Hunters Have Blogs

The diner seems as good a place as any to set up for research. Sam commandeers a corner table with a good view of the door, and sits at an angle where no one can see his laptop screen. He actually prefers researching in their motel room or at the local library because it’s quieter and he can get more done, but the diner has the added benefit of providing indefinite entertainment for Dean in the form of burgers and coffee. Less bitching means more time to study; Sam’ll take his wins where he can. 

By the time the afternoon winds down, however, Sam’s wishing he could be anywhere else at all. The downside to a corner booth is that he’s trapped between Dean and Castiel on a curved bench. The angel’s silence is oppressive, while Dean’s awkward jokes and everything’s-totally-fine comments are getting unbearable in an entirely different way. 

“Give me strength,” Sam whispers under his breath. _Better yet, grant me patience. If you give me strength, I might beat one of them_. He isn’t even sure who such vague thoughts are directed to anymore other than Definitely Not Chuck, but saying it has to be better than not. 

Time passes and absolutely nothing continues to be all Castiel contributes. A joke about crappy coffee come from Dean, followed by blatant flirting with the waitress, Marie. Castiel immediately withdraws further, drawing the line of tension tight across the table. 

Sam wants to scream, but he clears his throat instead. “Do you two want to go and see if you can get an interview with the coroner?”

The tendon in Dean’s neck pulses as he clenches his jaw, but all he says is “Sure thing, Sammy.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks in a sub-arctic tone. “I wouldn’t want to continue a nightmare.” 

Dean’s hands slap down on the table so hard the coffee mugs rattle and the person sitting two booths down visibly jumps. “Seriously, buddy? _That’s_ what—”

“Well, _you’re_ the one who said—”

“—Ridiculous, what was I supposed to—”

“—Maybe _not_ nightmare, you flannel-clad—”

“ _ENOUGH!_ ” Sam slams his laptop shut and they both stop short, glaring at each other past him like leashed dogs. When Sam speaks again it’s in a seething hiss, well aware that every ear in the restaurant is straining to eavesdrop on their disagreement. “Stow it, assholes; if you have to sort out your bullshit, do it on your own time. In case you haven’t noticed, _kids are dying._ ”

The silence that falls is so absolute they can hear someone cursing in the diner’s kitchen. Sam squares his shoulders and steeples his fingers in front of him, braced to wait however long he must before one of them breaks. A solid minute passes before angel and hunter both slump against the booth, staring in opposite directions. _Like sulking children. Jesus Christ._

“Luckily for you both,” Sam says through gritted teeth, “I think I know what the monster is.”

“What is it?” Castiel breaks first, so Sam draws a chalk line next to the angel’s name on his mental scoreboard. _Castiel: 1 Dean: 0._

“I believe,” Sam answers with a certain amount of relief, pushing his laptop back so they can both clearly see the screen, “it’s a bogeyman.”

“That’s a real thing?” Dean squints at the laptop as if its sprouted horns and a tail, rather than an ink sketch of a sack-faced, gangly man set amid tiny text.

“It definitely is. Versions of them appear in folk tales across the world. According to this hunter’s blog I was reading—”

“Hunters have _blogs_?” Dean interrupts, incredulous. 

“Yes, Dean,” Sam replies, patience effectively burned to nothing, “we have blogs. Now, as I was saying—almost all cultures have some kind of bogeyman figure. There’s usually a sack involved in some way, and their purpose seems to be to scare children into obedience. They feed off the fear that they create.”

“So, if they feed off fear…” Castiel says thoughtfully, “surely they’d be better off keeping their victims alive?”

Sam nods, pointing an approving finger at Castiel. “Bingo. They’re actually related to Zanna, though I doubt they’d like to acknowledge it. They don’t kill, they just scare bad children into being good.”

“But this one is killing,” Dean points out. 

_Redundancy, much?_ Sam nods through his aggravation. “That part is where I’m lost. Not sure what’s special about this one, or if we’re barking up the wrong tree somehow.”

They sit in silence for a moment, though at least this time it’s moderately comfortable. Sam mentally reviews the information they’ve gathered while Castiel and Dean squint at the laptop screen from opposite sides of the table, reading through the lore at their own pace.

“Hey…” Sam says, an idea propelling him straight up from the back of the seat. “I’ve got it!”

Both Castiel and Dean give him eerily similar raised eyebrows.

“They’re related to Zanna—so who’s likely to know something about what makes them tick?”

Slow realization crawls over Dean’s face right in front of Sam’s eyes, before turning into a mild, resigned scowl. “Sully,” he says.

“Sully,” Sam agrees, and for the first time that day, his smile is genuine. 


	5. Muller

“Sully’s busy,” Sam says. He’s vibrating with tension, shoving a hand through his hair again and again as if the strands will magically give him answers. “I don’t know what kind of Zanna emergency could be more important than endangered children. I thought the kids were the most important thing to them, you know? Whatever it is, it’s got him all tied up.”

“Ew, dude, I so did not need that mental image,” Dean remarks. He’s eating another burger; it’s his fourth or fifth of the day and Castiel finds himself wondering, not for the first or last time, how the hunter manages to fit so much food inside his body. 

“Oh my God, Dean.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and Castiel can hear him counting slowly. When he reaches five, the younger Winchester straightens, pulling calm around him like a cloak. “Anyway. Sully is _busy_ , but he says to get back to the motel. He’s going to send someone who’s very excited to help us, um, ‘lickity-split.’” 

“ _Lickity-split?_ Jesus, could he be any more obnoxious?” Dean mutters, and Castiel watches Sam’s face go tight and hard, his nostrils flaring and jaw working as he fights to stay calm. 

Castiel rolls his eyes to the ceiling, exasperation finally overcoming his desire to keep the higher ground of quiet distance. “ _Dean_.”

“Forget it,” Dean snaps, “Let’s go see what razzle-dazzled fresh hell is waiting to show us the stairway to heaven this time.” 

He pushes himself out of the booth and it takes approximately one millionth of a second for Castiel to follow. He faces Dean head-on, chests nearly touching as they glare at each other. “That was inexcusably rude,” the angel says. 

“Out of my _way_ , Cas.”

“You owe Sam an apology,” Castiel replies without budging. The entire diner is watching them, he realizes distantly. The waitress Dean had flirted with earlier even has her cell phone raised, thumb hovered over the screen like she’s taking a video. 

From the outside Dean is the embodiment of frustrated rage, shoulders rolled back and feet planted as if he’s expecting a physical fight. At first he meets Castiel glare for glare, but then his eyes flick downward and his tongue slips out to wet his lips. They’re ten years younger and Dean’s telling him about personal space. Eight years younger and he’s watching Dean defend him in blind faith, even as his head insists there’s something wrong. Seven years younger and— 

There’s too much space between them now and it’s unbearable. Castiel touches Dean’s shoulder, fumbling to cross the distance in whatever way he can. 

Dean’s _hurt_ nearly knocks Castiel on his ass. It twists and burrows through the human’s soul, staining righteous light with shadows of shame and fear and loss and something else that Castiel shies away from before he can get too close. The mess expands more rapidly with every passing moment and he can do nothing about it 

“Let’s just get out of here.” Suddenly Sam is standing next to them, backpack slung over his shoulder. Castiel wonders how long they’ve been staring at each other. “Case to solve, remember?” 

Castiel takes the lead, pointedly ignoring the curious glances directed at them. He’s grateful when he can slide into Baby and slump against the back seat. He’s not tired—he can’t _get_ tired—but his vessel feels ungainly, weighed down by what he had seen a few minutes before. 

Metallica fills Baby as soon as Dean starts the engine. No one objects; Dean’s clearly not in the mood to talk, Sam’s shuffling through email on his phone again, and Castiel’s not certain he remembers how to form words. And so it goes, all the way back to their shoddy accommodations.

The car hasn’t even hit a complete stop before Castiel pops out, swinging the door shut behind him so hard that Sam yelps blasphemy through the open window. The angel pays him no mind as he jams his key card in the slot and pushes into their room. He needs space, he needs to think, he needs—

—There’s a woman sitting cross-legged on Dean’s bed, a magazine spread across her knees. She’s wearing a midriff-baring black tank top under an oddly familiar green jacket, low-slung cargo pants, and what appear to be some kind of military boots. There’s a wicked-looking knife and an open energy drink on the bed next to her. 

Castiel’s head tilts to the side despite himself. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” He asks, shaking his angel blade down his sleeve as he takes another step forward.

The woman looks up from her reading. He thinks she might be Rowena’s size, perhaps a little larger. However, this woman has a thick cloud of black hair that bounces a little when she looks up, and a round face that splits into a wide, mocking smile when she meets his eyes. Hers are blue, too, he realizes, stunningly pale against brown skin. 

“Hakuna your ta-tas, you harp-playing hummingbird,” she says, and cracks her gum with a _snap_ that echoes in the small room. “I was invited.” She flips to the next page absently, glancing down “Oh, _very_ nice,” she coos, tilting the magazine to show its contents to Castiel. 

On the page, two buff men are lip-locked against a classic car. One is wearing a fluffy halo, the other a cowboy hat. Castiel chooses to skip over the details. “That’s...Dean’s?” 

“Hell no, babe. You really think I know where that boy stashes his porn these days?” She shakes her head. “Name’s Muller,” she says, scooting across the bed to offer her hand. She’s wearing a variety of rings, he notices, and a studded cuff adorns her wrist. “You must be Castiel. Nice to finally meet you.” 

He senses movement behind him before he can take her hand or respond.

“Dude, what’s the hold up?” Sam asks with the kind of false-cheer that he only uses when he’s been arguing with Dean. The big hunter pushes past without further preamble, then stops short, shoulders drawing up as he takes in the intruder. 

His surprise lasts only a minute. Then his face melts into a relieved smile and he props his hip against the sad excuse for a table. “Oh. You must be Sully’s friend?” 

“Yup. I’m Muller.” 

“It’s really great to meet you, Muller. We want to—”

“What the freaking _hell_.”

Castiel and Sam both turn to face Dean. He’s standing in the open door, framed by the light outside, yet holding himself like he’s facing his worst nightmare. _No, that’s me_ , some petty part of Castiel’s mind reminds him. He ignores it, as he ignores so many other things that bother him. 

“Dean, this is Muller,” Sam says. “She’s—”

“A Zanna,” Dean interrupts, “yeah, I know.” He fumbles his way to the nearest chair and sits, fists clenched between his knees. 

“What he’s not telling you is that I was _his_ Zanna.” Muller turns a page in her magazine and busies herself looking at whatever she finds there. 

“Dean doesn’t have a Zanna. I would know if he did...” Sam trails off expectantly, but the older Winchester doesn’t respond. 

“Not so much, Sammy-boy,” Muller says. “Anyway, you wanna get on with this before Derek realizes I’m gone? He was gonna ask his crush on a date today and there’s only so much I can hide from his parents if I’m not there after the poor kid gets rejected.” 

“I thought Zanna helped children,” Castiel comments, unable to keep his puzzled curiosity to himself anymore, “But you’re,” he waves at her wordlessly, then changes what he’d been about to say, “I would not expect a child to imagine _you_.”

Muller shrugs. “Some kids need us longer than others. Maybe their lives suck more, or they have more questions, or they need extra guidance through confusing transitions...there are a million possible reasons, really, but in the end what matters is we grow with the kid if they need us to,” Muller explains. 

“And Dean was one...?” _How did I not know this? How deeply did he bury this memory that I have never seen it?_

“Can it, Cas,” Dean growls. 

The Zanna looks between them, brows drawn together thoughtfully. “Don’t worry honey, I don’t share stories that aren’t mine to tell,” she tells Dean in a surprisingly soft tone. “But I think it would help you to tell him someday. You’ll think about it, right?”

“Go to hell.”

Muller sighs, turning her attention back to Sam and Castiel with the air of a mother ignoring her tantruming child. Given her supposed role in Dean’s life, perhaps it’s not too far from the truth. “So I hear you need to gank a bogeyman. What’s it look like?”


	6. Secrets

_This is a nightmare._

_No, this is worse than a nightmare. This is a nightmare inside a nightmare, the mother of all bad dreams._

Sam and Cas are busy talking to Muller about the bogeyman and Dean should be listening. He _should_ be telling them every single way listening to her could possibly go wrong. He _should_ be getting the Zanna knife and ending her the same way he would any other monster. He _should_ be doing a lot of things, but sitting absolutely still proves to be the only action his body is capable of taking. 

“Bogeymen are like those awkward second cousins who crash your wedding, get drunk off a single wine cooler, then start scaring off your guests with uneducated political monologues.” Muller’s off the bed now, leaning over Sam’s laptop as they talk. “They’re also dangerous because for all they lack elsewhere, they’re really good at two things: scaring children and hiding.” 

“This one’s apparently a little too good at its job. How do we stop it?” Sam asks. 

“You hope it isn’t as good at hiding as it is at scare tactics, for starters. Stopping it is the easy part. _Finding_ it is the real bitch, especially for a bunch of bumbling adults. Thankfully,” and she tosses her head to the side, teeth flashing bright as she smiles up at her companions, “you have me.”

“What can you do to help?” Dean looks at Cas and their eyes lock. There’s suspicion in that expanse of blue, even if his words are steady and accepting. _He’s not sold._ Sam would believe anything a Zanna told him, but not salty, suspicious Cas. 

Dean allows himself a small smile of appreciation, but then remembers why he can’t...feel. Not here, not with Muller’s eyes on him, and certainly not with their last conversation bubbling dangerously near the surface of his memories. He looks away, jaw tight, and pretends he doesn't see when Cas's face goes stiff and blank. 

“I can look for him,” Muller says, “and once I’ve found him, _you_ will be able to gank him at your leisure. With this." She taps her knife possessively.

“No,” Dean says. His throat protests the single syllable as if he hasn’t had a drink in weeks, and he makes a note to retrieve a beer from the mini fridge as soon as he trusts his legs to stand.

“Could you do us all a favor and grow up?” Sam snaps. He paused, considering, "Or maybe be more of a kid and less of a jerk. She can help-”

“ _No_.” Dean licks his lips and pointedly does not look at anything except his brother’s face. He doesn’t need to see Cas’s confused frown or Muller’s sad smile. “She can’t. She don’t know a damn thing about anything. She’s a freaking imaginary friend, made up by kids, to comfort kids, in the way _kids_ think they need. You think that’s gonna help us kill a monster?” He shouldn’t say what he says next, he knows he shouldn’t, but the words pour out anyway. “Dammit, man, look what happened with Sully!”

“Hey, knock it off!” Muller’s up in Dean’s face in an instant, the familiar scent of coconut oil filling the air as she glares at him. “You might be a big bad ass hunter now, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay to be cruel to your brother. What’s going on up here?” She taps his temple and Dean flinches away. 

“I don’t need you, Muller. Not your comfort, not your company, and especially not your judgment. Get out.” 

Muller looks him up and down, then exhales through pursed lips. “As you wish, but kicking me out ain’t gonna change who you are or what you want. You can run from reality, but you can’t hide forever.” 

“Get. _Out_.”

Muller turns toward Sam, neatly flipping that monster of a knife over the back of her hand to offer it hilt first. Dean can remember when she taught him that trick and he thought it was the coolest thing ever...when _she_ was the coolest thing ever, actually, and he would have braved any challenge if it meant a high five from her later. “This’ll do the deed if you can catch the bastard. If Dean needs me, just give a holler; you know the drill. So long, suckers.”

Dean is out of the chair and popping open a beer before the door properly closes behind the Zanna. He manages one long swig before he realizes both brother and angel are giving him their undivided attention.

“So,” Sam begins, “why didn’t I know you had a Zanna? That _might_ have been useful information to have when Sully needed our help, you know.”

“Why? She clearly didn’t care enough to show up, and he already knew. Besides, I told her to take a hike a long time ago and I haven’t missed her.”

“That doesn’t mean she stops being your Zanna. I mean...it’s not like I had any space to mock you for it,” Sam says softly. He doesn’t have to clarify for Dean to know he’s thinking about his fight with Sully. 

“This is different,” Deann snaps. “Sully knew you just needed to get out, and he was right. My shit was...complicated. Big stuff, not hunting, and I was so confused. She wouldn’t leave it the hell alone. She harped on and on about ‘we are who we are’ and Dad doesn’t have the right to take that away from me. And—” 

He cuts off when he realizes he’s been watching Cas through the whole speech, lost in blue eyes and scruff, messy hair and broad shoulders. The angel wets his lips with a familiar flick of his tongue and Dean thinks about all the things Muller knows he wants, but can’t have. 

Cas looks away first. 

Dean stares at the side of his head for a moment too long. When he looks back at his brother, he can practically feel the Matrix falling in Sam’s head, the numbers forming some inevitable conclusion that Dean wants no part of. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

Sam’s eyebrows twitch together and his lips twist up on one side. Then he shakes his head with a little laugh and starts stacking his research notes on top of his laptop. “I’m going to the library,” he declares. “Maybe the local news archives will have something to explain why this bogeyman went off the rails.” 

“But—”

“You and Cas need to talk,” Sam’s voice is soft, but unyielding, “and I need to be literally anywhere else while you do.” 

The bottom drops out of Dean’s stomach as he considers how that conversation might go. “No! I- I can’t. Sammy, I _can’t._ ” Cas is making similar noises of objection, backing away one step at a time with his hands palms-out in front of his chest. For some reason the sight isn’t as vindicating as he thought it would be. 

“You can, and you will, or I swear to God I’m leaving and never coming back. I mean it, Dean. _Talk to him_.” Sam prods him in the chest with one finger, pushing so hard it hurts even through multiple layers of fabric. Then his brother is gone and Dean is left standing face to face with a rumpled-looking angel in a decrepit motel room.

Castiel doesn't hesitate. He stalks over to Dean, grabbing the second chair on the way. He puts it in front of the hunter and sits, hands on his thighs. Then he waits.

And waits.

It’s full dark out by the time Dean gathers his courage enough to speak, and even then it’s just to grunt a half-formed curse and scrub at his face. Then he’s silent again, though only for a minute or two. “This is stupid,” he mutters.

“Muller said some children need Zanna longer than others,” Cas muses in response. “How old were you when she left?”

“She didn’t leave,” Dean retorts. “I told her to get out or I’d gank her monster ass.”

“That seems extreme.”

“Yeah, well. She tried to push me around about- about some things she thought she knew about me. And then she talked shit about Dad. I was seventeen anyway, I should have—” Dean freezes as his mind catches up with his mouth. “ _Fuck_. I really just said that, didn’t I?”

“Dean.” 

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Dean!”

“It’s private. Sam can fuck off until he gets over himself, and so can you.”

“ _What are you so afraid of?_ ” Grace crackles in subsonic waves beneath the question. Every hair on Dean’s body stands on end and he jerks his chin up, ready to fight. His aggression falls apart when their eyes meet, however. Sure, Cas is clearly done playing games, but there is no judgment or spite lurking behind his frustration. All the angel is giving him is _care_ , true and immeasurably deep, and there’s no way Dean deserves all that, there’s just no way. 

_Fuck._

There’s a stone rolling down a mountain somewhere in Dean’s mind. It bounces and gathers speed, crashing and churning until it brings the whole hill down with it in a rush. When the debris hits bottom, his mouth opens and words fall out. “Dad would hate me if he knew.”


	7. The Angel and the Righteous Man

Dean is staring at the floor, hunched in on himself like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar and no excuse for his transgression. Castiel reaches without thought, fingers sliding along Dean’s jaw to tip his head up. He studies the hunter’s face, noting every freckle, every wrinkle, every tiny scar that he hasn’t yet had the chance to erase. 

To his surprise, Dean leans closer momentarily, his eyes blown wide as his cheek nestles against Castiel’s palm. “I can’t let anyone too close,” the human says, his voice hoarse, cracking with emotion. “If someone knows me, like really knows me, I got no choice but to keep them far away.” He grabs Castiel’s forearm with both hands and shoves it away, but even at arm’s length, he doesn’t let go. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I’ve never been the man Dad wanted me to be, Cas. I want– want to do things. See things. _Feel_ things. Things he would never understand, you know? And I can’t, I just can’t. It’s too late for me.” 

Castiel _doesn’t_ know, and he’s upset about it. On one hand, he’s remembering how Dean looked at him for that brief moment before the dream exploded. On the other, he’s remembering Dean declaring that _it turned into a real horror show_. 

“From what you told me, your father was proud of what you’ve done,” he says, keeping his face and voice clean of any inner turmoil. “He _wanted_ you to get out, and,” he hesitates, knowing what he’s giving up with his next words even as he accepts it must be done, “if you still want to, I will help you.”

Dean’s grip tightens enough to leave bruises on any human. “That ain’t what I’m talking about,” he mumbles, “not at all, man. I told Muller to hit the road because she told me what I was feeling was okay. She said—she said I could like who I liked; it didn’t matter what Dad thought, she said. I was still me and I was still a good person.”

He’s breathless, cheeks stained pink, and Castiel can’t stop staring. He abandoned heaven for this man without a second thought, took a leap into the unknown, lost his wings, his faith, his family, and his pride, and hasn’t stopped falling since, but has never expected anything in return. 

Dean was to be admired and cared for and supported at all times, but never desired, never owned, never _his_. That has been the foundation of Castiel’s existence for years, the unquestioned reality that guides his every move. That ironclad truth seems less certain now, but the spark of hope in his chest is dangerous beyond measure. What if it’s still, somehow, a misunderstanding? 

“Who did John object to, Dean?” That seems safe enough. A circuitous route to his destination, to be sure, but if Dean withdraws now, Castiel thinks he might break for good. He can handle a little dancing about at first if it means the hunter doesn’t stop looking at him like that. 

“A classmate in high school.” Dean barks a humorless laugh. “You want to know the real messed up part? I don’t remember his name, but I do remember Dad calling him something real bad one night when he saw us talking outside of school...and _that_ stuck.” 

He tips forward until his forehead rests against the inside of Castiel’s wrist. “I stopped talking to Muller after that, but she kept showing up looking sad. Eventually she tried to talk to me about what Dad said and I blew up. The rest is history.”

Castiel nods, muted by grief for the hurt boy Dean had been, and anger at the terrible toll John’s mistakes have taken on him. “Did John’s indiscrete commentary have anything to do with why that dream was a...nightmare?” He asks. 

“You don’t know the freaking half of it.” 

Static shivers from the angel’s head to his feet and the alarm clock gives an annoyed _beep_ as it resets itself. He leans forward and down until he can peer, however awkwardly, at Dean’s face. “So tell me,” he whispers. 

Dean releases his arm and straightens until they can face each other at a more comfortable angle. Then he just looks. Really _looks_ , his eyes traveling over every inch of Castiel’s face as if seeing it for the first time. “Morpheus told me you were fake,” he begins. He hedges around the details as he usually does with any sensitive subject, refusing to name emotions or thoughts that seem obvious to Castiel, but eventually the whole story comes out.

“He looked like Lisa to me,” Castiel comments at the end. It’s inane and pointless, a desperate cover for the supernova happening in his chest at the thought that _Dean had wanted to stay with him_. A fake him, but still. He had wanted to stay. 

“What the hell! Wait, is that why...” Dean rubs his forehead with two fingers, eyes rolling up in brief exasperation. “You thought I was with Lisa in that dream, and I was upset you took me away from her?” 

Castiel nods, shoulders hunched up against the pain of that thought. “You seemed happy,” he says miserably. 

A breath later every fiber of his being is entirely occupied by the sensation of Dean’s hands cupping his jaw. Castiel blinks, confused, and the hunter pulls back, looking worried. “I don’t deserve you,” he says breathlessly. “You’re a freaking Angel of the Lord and I’m just some dumb human.”

“Fallen angel,” Castiel corrects, dry as old toast, “and the Righteous Man.” The two of them are leaning so far forward they’re in danger of falling completely out of their chairs. His hands have a mind of their own, it seems. He wants them to stay safely in his lap, but instead they’re sliding up Dean’s arms, over his shoulders, and up his chest.

“Please tell me this isn’t a dream,” Dean begs, his breath warm on Castiel’s face. “Please, I can’t do this again.” 

Words aren’t enough to respond to that. Castiel’s fingers wrap into Dean’s shirt and tug him forward the extra inch it takes for their lips to connect.


	8. What Dean Winchester Deserves

Stray thoughts ping through Dean’s consciousness as his senses are overwhelmed by the taste and feel and scent of _Cas_. 

_Is the door locked?_

_Dry lips aren’t sexy._

_Maybe they are._

_I can’t do this._

_But I want to._

Electricity jolts through his body to banish each one as it appears, heat boiling out to consume his existence. He can’t tell if it’s Cas losing control of his grace or the raw power of their connection; perhaps it’s both. Perhaps they’re working in harmony to grant Dean the closest thing to ecstasy he’s ever felt while sober. If that’s the case, they deserve a trophy for team work. 

He inhales, filling his lungs with the scent of _Castiel, Angel of the Lord_ , before pushing forward to continue their eager embrace. The fingers of one hand wrap into the hair at the back of Cas’s head, the other traces the curves and dips of his face, strokes over his throat and down.

Dean pauses when his index finger hooks into the angel’s tie. Cas’s chest is moving up and down, his heart pounding so hard Dean can feel it through his shirt. Their mouths have stilled, though they remain pressed together. Abruptly he wonders if Cas is regretting initiating whatever _this_ is, and the thought hurts so much he actually flinches. 

Dean looks up reluctantly, only to find himself staring into Cas’s blue eyes, bare inches from his own. They’re normal eyes, he reminds himself, the last remnant of a perfectly human man named Jimmy Novak. They’re not really windows into any kind of alternate dimension and never have been, yet he’s sure he can see the barest hint of what must be Cas’s true form lurking in their depths.

He pulls away slowly, his teeth catching on Cas’s lower lip and tugging gently until it falls free and his mouth is left feeling desperately empty. Cas’s eyes roll up and his face goes slack at the same time as the lightbulb in the desk lamp makes a distinct _pop_ sound. “Careful there,” Dean murmurs with an unsteady chuckle. “You’re gonna scare the locals, sunshine.” 

“Dean.” There’s more hope and joy in that single word that Dean can ever hope to satisfy. 

Fear of rejection fades, to be replaced by entirely different concerns. He bites his lower lip as he studies Cas’s face, committing every blissed-out detail to memory. _You don’t deserve all the crap I’ll bring on you,_ he thinks. _This has to stop._

He starts to pull away and suddenly Cas is pushing himself upward. He drags Dean up with him by simply refusing to let go when Dean tries to break free, then bodily pushes the hunter backward. They stumble around chairs and tables and scattered duffel bags, Cas holding Dean up when he trips, Dean laughing, a little ashamed at how much he likes the angel’s strength. 

They pause frequently to kiss, again and again and again. They keep at it until Dean can’t remember how to breathe and his body aches with need and the air is so dense with electric tension he half-expects lightning to arc through the room.

His calves hit the mattress and they’re falling, falling carelessly backward, Cas’s weight pushing him into the bed as they land, Cas’s hands hauling him upward until his head settles on the pillow. Their mouths part then and Dean growls a protest. It cuts off when Cas starts sucking on the pulse point below his ear, tongue rolling in mind-boggling circles against sensitive skin. Dean groans, his head falling to the side of its own volition. 

Cas takes the hint. He licks and kisses, nibbles and nudges. He pauses occasionally to murmur praise against Dean’s skin, the words rippling through English, Enochian, and other languages Dean doesn’t recognize. 

“Oh, fuck... _Cas!_ ” It’s lame in comparison to the poetry Cas is heaping on him, but the angel’s delighted laugh in response is heavy with satisfaction. 

Cas lost his trench coat and blazer somewhere along the way, so Dean yanks that damnable dress shirt free and slides his hands beneath to explore a body he’s barely dared to dream about. It’s illogical, but he expects to find wings or feathers, some physical sign that Cas is not human. He finds only smooth muscle, but that’s perfectly fine; better, really, because a human body presents fewer reasons for Dean’s brain to argue with what’s happening. 

Cas arches into his touch, emitting a low growl that resonates somewhere inside Dean’s soul. The movement pushes them even closer together, presenting unignorable evidence that angels are not, in fact, ‘junkless.’ It’s the hottest thing Dean’s ever felt and he wants more; he rocks his hips upward once, twice—and reality sets in like a cold shower.

“Wait,” he says, wrenching his hands away from Cas’s body, “no.”

Cas nips his shoulder in sharp protest, but he pushes himself up to look Dean in the face immediately after. He’s positively _wrecked_ : pupils blown wide, lips swollen and spit-slick, and hair standing in every direction. Dean makes an incoherent sound in the back of his throat and slams his head back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, casting about in his mind for something, anything, to distract him. “ _Cas._ We have to stop.” Cas starts to pull away and Dean grabs at him, desperate to be understood. “No, don’t leave, I don’t mean like that. We just- we need to _talk_. Need to figure out what this is, before we do anything...stupid.” 

Dean hesitates a moment, then wraps an arm around Cas’s shoulders and a leg around his thighs in a tacit request to stay, to be patient. Cas doesn’t respond at first, but then he gradually relaxes. His body moulds against Dean’s again and there’s muscle where he’s used to curves, scruff where he’s used to smooth skin. It feels different and strange, but also _right_ in some inexplicable way. They’re almost cuddling, Dean thinks, and that thought feels too good to be real.

“There is no possible way to construe this thing we have as ‘stupid,’” Cas observes. 

“How could it be anything but? I’ve already destroyed your life, Cas. We do this, what else am I gonna mess up?”

“Nothing. My _circumstance_ isn’t your doing, Dean. Every decision has a consequence, and I don’t regret mine. That isn’t going to change simply because we…” he looks between them pointedly, a positively delighted smile spreading across his face. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Dean says, feeling dumb. He’s said it before, but Cas doesn’t seem to be getting the point. 

“It’s a good thing you don’t get to make that decision for me,” Cas replies with a low chuckle. “Do you want to know what I think you deserve, Dean?” Cas doesn’t wait for an answer, simply ducks his head down to press a kiss against Dean’s temple. 

“You deserve to feel safe.” 

He pulls away, then ducks back to kiss the other temple as well. 

“You deserve to be happy.” 

He pulls away again, and this time when he ducks down he pauses just before his lips press against Dean’s. 

“You deserve to be loved exactly as you are.”

Dean can hear the truth in Cas’s voice, can feel it in his touch. It’s there, irrevocable, unignorable, but he can’t accept it. _Too good for me, Cas, you’re too good for me. I’ll break you more, I’ll put you out for good. Can’t you see what crap I am? Cas, Cas…!_

His fear and shame escapes in tears, salt trails burning down his cheeks. Cas wipes them away, kisses the corners of his eyes, murmurs a soft benediction to the crows feet that have taken permanent residence there. He’s gentle, overwhelmingly so, every touch bearing the weight of outright worship. It’s hard to believe a being that can lift anvils and break fists with his face can be so soft...but then again, behind every touch there’s a hint of thunder, so perhaps it isn’t such a stretch after all. 

Dean’s breath gradually evens out. His heart slows a little, only to pick up at an entirely different rhythm when their bodies rub together just right. Need sparks again, demanding more..more... _more_ , and who is he to say no if Cas is going to insist on being a dumbass?

He finds himself pushing up to meet the angel’s caresses then, turning his head to accept the kisses given to him. Then all restraint is gone and Dean gives as good as he gets. Lips taste, test, and demand more; teeth nip and scrape, delighting in every shudder and groan the angel gives in return; arms and legs tangle together, fall apart, then wind together once more. 

In the end, it’s not as good as he’d dreamed.

It’s _better_. 


	9. There Goes the Neighborhood

The evening passes slowly for Sam.

The library has little of interest, the coroner gives him nothing he didn’t already know from Violet and Muller, and attempting to speak to the parents of the other victims turns out to be an exercise in emotional sadomasochism with so little return that he ultimately decides to leave it be. 

He grabs dinner at a Greek restaurant just off highway 51. He feels a little guilty about enjoying his meal given everything else going on in Jackson that night, but it’s not like he’s sitting there doing nothing. Even while scarfing down the best gyro he’s had since he left Stanford he’s still compiling research and networking with other hunters. 

By the time he’s done eating it’s well past closing time for most places he would prefer to land, and neither of his companions have contacted him. He frowns at his phone, torn between checking in and giving them space. In the end, the latter wins. They need all the time they can get _and_ he needs some damn peace and quiet. Comparatively, anyway. 

He migrates to a bar near the motel and settles at a corner table. He texts the address to Dean and Cas, then settles down with his laptop once more. He starts to get worried when an hour or two passes without a blip, but before he can take off to find his brother, Dean finds him. 

The older Winchester swings in just after midnight. He nods a greeting when he sees Sam, but he makes a side trip for a beer before sauntering over and sprawling into the chair across the table. 

He’s showered, shaved, and changed since Sam last saw him, and the collar on his light brown coat is popped up like he used to wear it when they were younger. All in all, he looks entirely too put together to be Dean Winchester at a bar in the small hours of a Friday night.

“Thanks for twisting my arm,” Dean says. Surprisingly, the comment doesn’t sound sarcastic; Sam squints suspiciously, but opts not to reply. “We talked,” the other man continues after a pause, seeming to realize it’s on him to continue the conversation. “And, uh...it’s good. We’re good. Real good, actually. Cas thought you might like to hear it from me first so he’s Netflixing it up at the motel.”

“Really?” Sam pushes his laptop aside and crosses his forearms on the table, leaning forward to peer at his brother. 

“Yeah, really. It was.a stupid argument to begin with.” Dean reaches up to scratch at his jaw and the movement displaces his coat. Sam only sees the skin beneath for a moment, but that’s all he needs; the mottled marks skirting the base and sides of his brother’s throat tell their own tales.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Sam exclaims. Dean looks confused, so Sam waves vaguely at his neck in explanation. “Buy a scarf or something, dude. I’m glad you talked, if that’s what you want to call it, but I don’t need to see what _angel marks_ look like on my freaking brother.”

“Go to hell, Samuel.” Dean self-consciously adjusts his collar as he speaks, but there’s no real heat in the statement. 

“I think I’m already there,” Sam mutters. He makes a valiant attempt to look annoyed, but his lips curl up despite his best efforts and the next minute he’s laughing, face turned to the ceiling. “I can’t believe it. I can’t! What did he do? Mojo your weird-ass hangups away? Actually, you know what—don’t answer that question. I don’t want to know.”

Dean rolls his eyes dismissively, but Sam’s been shotgun to his brother’s emotional crises too many times to miss the signs of true embarrassment and fear. He’s also familiar with what happens if Dean is left to navigate that maze of emotions unchecked and that absolutely cannot be allowed to happen this time. 

“Seriously, I’m happy for you,” he adds once he manages to catch Dean’s eye. “It’s really great to see you living on your own terms.” 

“Yeah, whatever. Leave the Hallmark moment at the door, would you?” Dean kicks at his feet beneath the table and the tension breaks in the resulting scuffle. Sam lets Dean lead the ensuing conversation, not wanting to push him too hard when he’s obviously uncomfortable. It’s a little frustrating, although no real surprise, that they mostly talk about hunting and lore. 

By the time Dean’s drained his second beer he’s making cracks about their childhood, his manner easy and confident with no trace of the terrifying anger that has haunted him for the last few years. It’s a good look on him; Sam nurses his own drink and lets himself enjoy the moment for what it is.

Of course, they’re Winchesters, and that means they don’t get to have good nights. Sam is unpleasantly reminded of this fact when the bar door bursts open. The other patrons glance over curiously, then turn back to their drinks and conversation with a shrug. _The wind must be picking up_ , they say to each other, and that’s that. 

Sam watches Muller approach with something akin to dread in his stomach. This is the last place on earth he would expect to see her, especially considering how rude Dean had been earlier, and it can’t mean anything good.

Muller drops into a nearby chair and looks between them as if calculating who she should speak to directly. Unsurprisingly, she settles on Dean. “I saw the bogeyman lurking around your motel earlier. God knows why given the shitshow earlier, but I followed him, and…he has your angel.”


	10. Hide and Seek

Castiel’s mind still functions as it always has, but his vessel feels sated and lazy, intent on settling in and doing nothing save bask in the afterglow of intense, physical satisfaction. It isn’t an unfamiliar sensation, but certainly not one he’d ever expected to feel in relation to Dean.

The angel grins, settling his back against the headboard nailed against the wall above the bed. The bedding is a disaster and there are clothes strewn about the room without regard for placement or privacy. His mind starts replaying how every item had been misplaced, but soon realizes he’s doing himself more harm than good with that line of thought and shuts it down. 

A little while later he gets up and starts putting things away. Dean might not have cared a whole lot about what Sam thought of their escapade in the heat of the moment, but Castiel knows that time and distance will change that drastically. He’s just folding a t-shirt into a neat roll the way Dean likes them when he hears someone say, “I’m going to count to six.” 

The angel’s brows draw together and he turns toward the door, but there’s nothing there. He opens it and glances around, finding only sidewalk and a few cars in an otherwise empty parking lot. For the second time that day, Castiel shakes his angel blade into his hand, though he keeps it in his sleeve for now. That voice had sounded too young to be out this late. 

“You better hide quick,” the voice says, and there’s an odd sing-song lilt to it that wasn’t there before, “because I’m going to get you.” 

Castiel shakes his head. “You can’t scare me,” he says. “I know what you are.” 

The unseen presence hisses. “One.”

Castiel rakes the room with grace-enhanced eyes, but finds absolutely nothing of interest. It rankles him deeply that this creature is hurting children and he can’t even see it. 

“Two.”

Castiel reaches for his phone with his free hand. _Dean needs to know_. He barely gets the device unlocked before bright light explodes in his head and the world fades away. The last thing he hears is the clatter as his blade and phone hit the hardwood floor. 

-

When Castiel awakes, the first thing he notices is that he’s been moved. There’s just enough light for him to see he’s surrounded by shelving in what he guesses is a larger warehouse. He’s also alone (or hopes he is), and he’s strung up by his wrists, toes touching the floor just enough to give him the illusion of stability. It’s an uncomfortable, but impermanent situation; Castiel rolls his eyes and shoves his grace through the cuffs holding him upright. 

Nothing happens. 

Shock grips him for a moment, then he slowly tilts his head back to give his bindings a closer look. There’s Enochian carved into every link of the chains holding him up, as well as on the cuffs. He looks down and realizes it’s scrawled all over the floor, too, trapping him more surely than any physical prison could have. 

He has no idea where he is, or even what time it is. He can’t move, no one’s going to hear him if he screams, and worst of all, Dean probably thinks he changed his mind and ran away. 

“I told you to hide,” that strange little voice remarks. “Since you didn’t, I made do.” It sounds oddly pleased with itself, as if solving problems isn’t something it typically has to do. 

Castiel yanks on the chains again, but the only thing he gets in response is laughter.

It takes a little while, but Castiel eventually comes to the conclusion that while the bogeyman might know how to capture him, it is incapable of impacting him emotionally. This seems to frustrate it; he can feel the odd pressure in his mind when the bogeyman is working, and he can hear it swearing when nothing happens. 

In the absence of torture, distration, or any real hope of escape, it’s easy for Castiel to fall into a sort of dream state and let his mind drift. 

A loud bang yanks him back to reality. He blinks, shaking his head and looking around for some sign of what’s happening, but nothing presents itself. A moment later there’s a second bang, and Castiel realizes he can hear voices. 

“Dean,” he calls. 

There’s a long silence, and Castiel wonders if he imagined the whole thing. Then Dean and Sam come into view, followed quickly by Muller. The brothers each have a hand on one of the Zanna’s shoulders. Dean’s carrying her knife, while Sam has a firearm at the ready. 

Dean smiles at him, but the expression is a little distracted. All three newcomers have their eyes fixed on a point behind Castiel, and he abruptly realizes that they’re walking as they are so Dean and Sam can see the bogeyman. _Clever._

The fight that follows is brief, but vicious. Castiel watches as best he can, carefully turning himself in circles on his toes to keep an eye on his friends. Muller stays out of the way for the most part—as much as she can, anyway, given the hunters need her to see—but in the end she's the one who sticks her foot out to trip the bogeyman. 

Dean drives the knife home with a growled curse, then sits back, scrubbing his hands on his thighs as if burned. 

The creature fades into view as it dies. It’s a small thing in death, resembling nothing so much as a bundle of twigs and an old potato sack tied together with twine. It’s shockingly similar to what Anya had drawn on that napkin what feels like ten million years ago, and Castiel finds himself wondering how much of its present appearance was drawn from the little girl’s imagination.

Dean’s up and in his face almost immediately, lockpicks busy in the handcuffs. The metal clicks open and Cas’s hands fall to his sides as the rest of him settles to the ground. It only takes a moment to wash his limbs with grace and revitalize the lost blood flow, and then he’s able to reach for Dean. 

“Fuck, we have to stop doing this,” Dean mutters into his shoulder.

Castiel stiffens. “Doing what?” he asks, already bracing himself for heartbreak.

“Almost dying in front of each other, dumbass,” Dean says. Castiel would protest—he was never in danger, not like that anyway—but then Dean's lips crash against his and with that kind of distraction ten bogeyman could have jumped out of nowhere and the angel wouldn’t have noticed. 

They kiss until Sam clears his throat. Then they break apart briefly only to lock lips for another quick embrace before finally turning to face their companions. 

Muller gives an exaggerated golf clap. “I see you finally got the message,” she says.

“Yeah…” Dean looks at the ground. “Look, Muller. I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready to hear what you had to say by any stretch of the imagination, but that doesn’t mean I should have said what I did. You, too, Sammy,’ he adds, glancing at his brother. “I’m sorry for being a jerk about Sully.”

Sam doesn’t respond immediately. He has an odd expression on his face, actually, as if he’s doing mental arithmetic. “Muller and Sully,” ‘he says finally, apropos of nothing as far as Castiel can tell. “Dean, our Zanna were named _Muller_ and _Sully_.” Dean pivots to stare at him, and the two start laughing. Castiel is perplexed, but they seem so amused he can’t help but break into a small smile of his own for their sake, if nothing else. 

Muller spreads her hands in a universal sign of coy innocence. “What happens with a Zanna, stays with a Zanna,” she says. Then she pauses, her gaze going slightly off-focus for a breath or two. “Speaking of, Derek needs me. Dean...you gonna be okay?”

Dean’s laughter cuts off as he looks at her. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I swear.”

“Good.”

“Take care of yourself, Muller.” 

“Do me a favor and take your own advice, Winchester,” she replies. “So long.”

They’re nearly to the Impala when something shifts in the night, a twinge of _not right_ that shivers up and down Castiel’s spine like a palpable touch. He spins in place and finds himself face to face with a pale-haired woman in blue. 

“Sometimes all it takes is a little help in the right direction,” she says, and, with the air of someone delivering a judgment, claps her hands three times. 

A spell envelops them; Castiel can feel it pulling at his vessel and his grace. He reaches for a knife he doesn’t have. “Witch,” he snaps.

“Not quite, dear.” The woman blows him a kiss, and he feels something sparkle beneath his skin, then settle deeper. “Enjoy my gift.”

She’s gone as suddenly as she arrived. Castiel looks from Sam to Dean. “Did she harm either of you?” he asks. 

“No,” Sam says after a perfunctory check of his body. 

“Not that I can tell.” Dean shrugs. “I feel different, but it’s hard to explain. Kinda tingly?”

Castiel sighs. “I am the same.” He reaches out. “May I?” Dean hesitates only a moment before nodding agreement. Castiel puts his fingers to Dean’s forehead and lets his grace flow through the human’s body, searching for any signs of damage. 

Somewhere along the way he gets distracted by warmth. At first it’s just in Dean: an odd spark where there shouldn’t be, growing a little stronger the more Castiel examines it. Then he feels an answering flicker inside his own vessel.

The angel retreats thoughtfully. “It was definitely spellwork,” he says, “But I’m not sure what it’s meant to accomplish.”

“Damn it, we just solved a case,” Sam complains as he heads for the passenger seat. “Can’t we catch a freaking break?”

Castiel barely hears him. He’s staring at Dean, utterly lost in green eyes and freckles. 

To his surprise, Dean surges forward, boxing him against Baby’s window with his arms. His lips are ravenous and that odd little spark surges higher within Castiel’s body with every new movement. It feels incredible. It feels like everything Castiel has ever wanted, magnified ten times or more.

It feels…

...It feels like magic. 

_This isn’t good._

**Author's Note:**

> Up next: [Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DestielFanficSeason15/works/19999258)
> 
> -
> 
> (blueeyesandpie)
> 
> Dean's Zanna is entirely mine (so if you think it's bad on an epic scale, please blame me, not Mal, haha XD). My characterization boiled down to a couple of things I truly believe about Dean:
> 
> A) He wouldn't have an imaginary friend who is obviously non-human (i.e. no unicorn men or mermaids). It's entirely possible he didn't know Muller wasn't just a particularly street savvy human until well into their friendship.  
> B) He needed an imaginary friend who could help him through his emerging sexuality and its differences from John's expectations, but there's no way he could have accepted that kind of guidance from a man. A woman, however- especially a bad ass woman who isn't afraid to tell him what to do? We already have canonical evidence (Rhonda Hurley) that he'll follow along with that.  
> Bonus: I purposely made her look like Cassie Robinson. It's not covered in the fic, but in my head he kicked Muller out in fear and anger, then a few years later met this girl who looked at him like a human being and resembled this person who used to make him feel better about himself, and the rest is history. Plus, it makes the fact Cassie broke up with him for telling the truth that much more ouchie, now doesn't it?
> 
> \---
> 
> I spend my free time hanging around on the [Profound Bond](http://discord.profoundbond.net) discord server. If you're interested in hanging out with a whole bunch of super chill shippers, head on over and say hi. :)


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